


oh I am very weary, though tears no longer flow

by The_Arkadian



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Childhood, Gen, Grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 16:14:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2738834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian/pseuds/The_Arkadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt by red_Mercutio: tycutio: “You know, it’s okay to cry.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh I am very weary, though tears no longer flow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MercutioLives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercutioLives/gifts).



Mercutio had never really liked the Basilica di Zeno Maggiore; it was too big, too echoing, too cold for his liking, full of grey stone and the statues of saints that glared down with disdainful disapproval like his uncle upon a restless boy of ten who had other places to be, trees to climb and mischief to be had. He fidgeted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and tugged at the collar of his new shirt. It felt too tight, the starched cotton too scratchy. He hated new clothes; invariably they meant some boring function or other at which he was expected to stand around like some precious dressed up doll, silent and bored out of his mind as the adults droned on about boring adult things and did boring adult business and glared at him when he sighed.

He felt an elbow in his ribs and darted a glance at his brother Valentine. Though the younger by two years, Valentine was his equal in height and often they'd been mistaken for twins, they were so alike. No-one who truly knew them could never have mistaken the one brother for the other however; somehow Valentine always looked neat and impeccably turned out, and where mercutio was restless and ill at ease in his new finery, Valentine wore his with a natural grace and dignity that belied his eight years of age.

Valentine darted him a meaningful look then rolled his eyes at their uncle, who was scowling at Mercutio. Mercutio huffed a silent sigh; no doubt there would be yet another lecture about the behaviour expected of the nephews of the Prince of Verona when in public, particularly at the funeral of a member of one of the great houses of the city. Mercutio returned his gaze to the front of the church and tried to figure out what was going on.

Everyone knew Vittorio Capulet had been murdered in the piazza only two days ago. It was openly whispered in the marketplace that it was by the Montagues; the servants in the palace spoke of nothing else. Prince Escalus believed his nephews innocent of such matters but Mercutio had sharp ears and the servants' tongues were often unguarded around children anyhow. Mercutio had a pretty fair idea of most things that went on in Verona by dint of keeping an ear open and his mouth shut. Thus it was that he knew the young lad clad all in black who stood beside the grieving Lady Capulet was Vittorio's son Tybalt, and that he'd been taken in by his aunt and uncle the very day his father died. He knew also that Tybalt was an orphan just like Mercutio; neither of them had ever known their mothers, both having died giving birth – Tybalt's to him, Mercutio's whilst giving birth to Valentine.

Mercutio studied Tybalt's back and wondered what he was thinking. He didn't know Tybalt particularly well – but then, from what he'd heard, few people did. He was quick to anger, quick to take offence, and never backed down from a fight – and by all reports, he never lost a fight. He had few friends, if any; he seemed frequently to be alone. Mercutio had lost his own father so long ago he could barely even remember him. He wondered how it would feel to lose your only parent at the age of ten, with no friends or siblings to comfort you; he, at least, had Valentine, but Tybalt had no-one. He couldn't fathom what Tybalt must be experiencing.

He noted that Tybalt's clothes looked brand new as well. He wondered if _his_ collar itched too.

After the service, as the nobles mingled and exchanged condolences with Lord and Lady Capulet, Mercutio looked around for the tall, skinny boy with long dark hair. Valentine tugged his arm and nodded in the direction of the church door; he spied Tybalt stumbling out into the daylight.

“Go on,” hissed Valentine out of the corner of his mouth. “I'll cover for you.”

Mercutio didn't wait to question how Valentine knew he wanted to speak to Tybalt; his brother knew him better than anyone else in the world. He merely nodded and took off towards the door as fast as propriety and the disapproving glances of his elders would let him.

He looked around outside, casting about until he spied a dark shadow beneath the yew trees – a slender form, head bowed so that the long dark hair fell about his face, slender arms wrapped around himself. He headed towards Tybalt, the Capulet boy oblivious to his approach.

As he drew closer he heard Tybalt fighting to hold back sobs, his breathing ragged as he fought for self control, and he felt pity for the other boy.

“You know, it's OK to cry,” he said quietly.

Tybalt turned and glared at him, white-faced and tight-lipped, but it wasn't grief Mercutio saw in the dark green eyes but fierce anger.

“What would you know of it?” Tybalt hissed as he panted, his breaths shallow and fast. “You know nothing of me!”

“You're right, I don't,” said Mercutio, taken aback. Tybalt glared at him then turned away; he blinked rapidly, and Mercutio thought her saw a glimmer of tears there but under the dark shadows cast by the yews it was hard to tell.

“I'm glad he's dead. Glad, I tell you. He – you have no idea. No idea.” Tybalt hugged himself tighter as his body shuddered.

“He was your father,” said Mercutio, faintly shocked. “Aren't you supposed to love him?”

“Am I?” asked Tybalt, glancing back at him, and this time beside the anger Mercutio thought he saw a flicker of wistfulness. “Is that how it is supposed to be, between a father and his son?”

“I don't know,” confessed Mercutio with a shrug as he leaned against the tree trunk next to Tybalt, his body inclined towards him. “My father died so long ago I can't even remember his face.”

“Oh. I'm sorry,” said Tybalt stiffly.

“Don't be,” shrugged Mercutio. “It doesn't bother me.”

“Oh,” said Tybalt again, and stared at the ground.

They stood in companionable silence for a while until they heard voices calling.

“They're looking for you,” said Mercutio. Tybalt nodded as he straightened, then paused. He turned towards Mercutio, his gaze directed slightly over Mercutio's right shoulder rather than meeting his gaze directly.

“I... thank you,” he said tersely, then turned away.

“It's OK to talk, too,” said Mercutio. Tybalt paused.

“I'll bear that in mind,” he said, not turning.

Mercutio watched him walking slowly away, and felt only pity for the other boy. Even though he knew it would have angered Tybalt no end had he known.

Because he had Valentine, but Tybalt had no-one.


End file.
